A round on a Saffer in Scotland

IT will most likely resemble an outtake from The Hangover, but I have faith that our time in the UK will afford refreshment of a different sort. Eight wheezing geezers on the ripe side of 40 let off the leash for two days in London will not comport themselves with time-worn dignity, of that we can be sure. Similarly, the week of golf in St Andrews and prize-giving ceremony in Edinburgh are unlikely to furnish a template of fine behaviour for our offspring.

And yet, is it too much to ask for a little enlightenment? To seek some manner of cultural solace that does not involve beer?

Well, this is a tricky one. Already two of our party have received barks of derision and threats of Jägermeister fines for suggesting a spot of shopping at Selfridges and a gawk at the Tate Modern.

For my part, I have been told my fogeyish hunt for a decent CD shop will come to nought: the Virgin store in Piccadilly: gone. HMV in Oxford Street: gone. This does nothing for my confidence about setting foot in The Smoke.

I imagine posses of hipsters in Buddy Holly specs and ironic cardigans chortling as the Saffers pass. (Funny, that — where I grew up, in Vryheid, Springs and Witbank, limeys were objects of scorn. I guess they deserve a turn to get their own back.)

All I remember of London from a previous visit is that it reminded me of Paris. A dog-eared kind of Paris but Paris no less. From the south bank of the Thames, the most notable landmark was a vulgar green Old Mutual building. Underground, Investec’s zebra had taken over every inch of billboard space.

But surely, by dint of proximity, I will feel a vague tingle of ancestral blood? After all, tangled in the sewers of three generations of South African-ness lurk undeniable roots of Anglo Saxon origin.

One doubts I’ll find any illumination in London, but on the train up north I may well hear an aching air of something familiar from the paternal valleys of Wales. Something sing-song yet marrowdeep in melancholy, perhaps. Ugh, to heck with that. What have the taffies got against hills, anyway? Cheer up, boyos!

And from the east, can I expect a Babel of Dutch, German and French to gust across the channel to remind me what a mongrel I am? My maternal grandpa and his twin brother were born François and Jaçques in the deepest Karoo, yet renamed themselves Frank and Jimmy. Why? For their Scottish mum? It’s too late to ask.

There will be lots of Franks and Jimmys in Scotland. They won’t be working in dark satanic mills, though. They’ll be lugging our golf bags through the mizzle, cursing our half-breed eyebrows. It’ll be a hoot.

Tangled in the sewers of three generations of South African-ness lurk undeniable roots of Anglo Saxon origin